Intaka Yakha Ngoboya Benye
by pinkswallowsun
Summary: Oneshot. Harry ponders on Nikki's habbit of pulling one nighters at the Lyell Centre, and finally works out why.


**This is just a random idea which came to me on the way home on Saturday, that I've only just got round to typing up and editing. It's just a one-shot and I'll be getting back to Sunset in South Africa straight afterwards, but I just wanted your opinions. Feel free to tell me the truth, even if you think it's rubbish, I'm exploring a new angle and need some guidance, so please review :)**

**The title comes froma Xhosa saying loosely connected to the plot, the meaning of which is displayed below. Xhosa is a South African language, one of the original spoken by the native tribes, and a close relative of Zulu. Hope you like.**

**Love Flossie xxx**

**Intaka yakha ngoboya benye**

**Xhosa**

'**A bird builds its nest with another's feathers'**

It never ceases to amaze you; her ability to get so caught up in her selfless quest for justice that she loses herself along the way. It's a trait in her that you've come to admire over the years, even to envy on some occasions, but one which worries you no end at the same time. But it's something nobody will ever succeed at stamping out of her, as you know only too well. To try would be like writing on the wind; no sooner have you tried and thought to have succeeded, something new comes along and all traces of your efforts are gone again. And so you have to accept it. You have to accept that working herself to the point of exhaustion when she's become too absorbed in a case is simply what makes Nikki… well, Nikki, and that's never going to change. You can't stop it, you can't interfere, but you can be there to catch her when she falls.

You tend to only discover her the morning after, when it's too late to do anything. You'll come into the office to find her fast asleep, her head resting in her hands on your desk as she tries desperately to make up from a lost night's sleep, for hours spent going through PM reports and evidence and books of medical research over and over and over again, running in circles that just seem to get wilder the more and more tired she gets. Those mornings, you never quite know what to do. Do you leave her be, knowing her to be exhausted and in dire need of any pitiful sleep she might be getting? Or should you wake her gently and try and persuade her to go home to change, eat something? Or should you even talk to Leo and convince him to give her the morning off, on the basis that she's probably worked her hours for the day already, in the dead of night when anybody with an ounce of common sense is asleep? You never know. All three options tend to lead to an explosion, but you try to not let that bother you. You know it's only because she's so passionate, because she cares so much. Sometimes you think she cares too much.

The trouble is, these hard-core, disturbing cases seem to take a hold on Nikki. Why her more than anybody else, more than you, more than Leo, you don't know, but there's no doubt in your mind that she tends to get obsessed. Unhealthily obsessed. But there's a pattern: a pattern which you have only recently discovered and a pattern which makes it all the more difficult to do anything about her worrying habit of pulling all-nighters. Because it's like a scar; a scar left behind from her past that never quite fades, no matter how much time passes. It's become a part of her, it's in the blood. And it's a topic of conversation that you know she will flee from if you dare to bring it up. So you don't. But that doesn't stop you worrying about her.

So what is it that's troubling her so much, that makes her stay all night in the office, searching in vain for an answer and finally giving in to sleep in frustration when there's none to be found? The answer lies in the lives of the victims, in their families, or rather lack of. Because the cases which affect her the most are the ones in which the victim has no one, no family, no friends, no life as such. No one to care, except for her, and that's why she does it, that's why she stays up all night trying to bring them justice. Because they remind her of herself, of everything she doesn't have, and they scare her. They make her worry that it's going to be like that for her when she's dead and gone, that they'll be no one left to care. That's why she does it. Because the idea of anyone dying and nobody caring terrifies her. And she can't let it happen.

You only realized this tonight, just as you were preparing to lock up for the night, unaware that she was still there, still working. At first, you didn't understand why it hadn't occurred to you before, but then you thought about it for a while as you pulled down the cutting-room blinds, and suddenly you understood. It hadn't occurred to you before because it was so obvious; you didn't even associate Nikki with those of the deceased in that respect. She's not like them, those poor lost souls with no one to miss them. She's got you, and you can't imagine your life without her in it.

Not that you don't understand where her insecurities come from, of course you do. They come from a traumatic childhood; first her father disappearing, then her mother dying, then being dragged half way across the world to live in a strange country with a father she despised. She feels like she's got no one left, that she's all alone in this life with no one to fight for her when she's gone, like she does for these desperate cases, these lost causes. And the moment you realized that, preparing to lock up the Lyell Centre for the night, you turned on your heels and headed straight back to the office the two of you share. Because in that moment, you knew that was exactly where she would be.

The victim of the case you were dealing with today reminded you of her; that's how you knew she'd still be there. She was roughly the same age, without a family, and had grown up in Australia, meaning she'd lost contact with most of her old friends on moving, but never quite made up the numbers in her new home. Australia, South Africa. Not the same place, but the similarities were there. And now she was dead, with no one to miss her, no one but Nikki slaving away furiously over a PM report, looking for the DNA of her murderer which simply wasn't there. Because she was scared. Scared that one day, that girl might be her.

As you entered the office, the events of the day racing through your head as the puzzle pieces began to fit together, you saw her there, twisted awkwardly on your desk chair, with the light of your computer screen painting neon blue highlights in her soft blonde hair. And in that moment, as you stood there in the doorway watching her sleep, she looked so troubled and afraid that couldn't understand how you hadn't realized all this before. Poor Nikki. Why couldn't she see how important she was to you, that no matter what happened, you'd always be there? Why couldn't she see how special she was, that she was the best friend you'd ever had, and how you sometimes wished she was more than that to you? You didn't know. You still don't. But you couldn't leave her there like that, not when it wasn't even midnight. By the morning she would be stiff beyond belief and fully drowned in her sorrows, and you couldn't see her like that, not again, not now you knew why she does this. And so you thought for a moment, then made your decision and switched off the computer. Sally Green would still be dead tomorrow; Nikki could continue then. But for now, she needed to sleep.

You whispered her name softly a few times, trying to get her attention, but she was out like a light and didn't respond in the slightest. And so without another moment's thought, you scooped her up into your arms and carried her out towards the door, taking her away from the bad thoughts and the fear. You didn't look back.

As you placed her on the passenger seat of your car and clipped in the seat belt, you debated what to do next. You had two options; either to take her back to her own flat, or to let her crash at yours. You went for yours in the end; you think you were worried about the possibility of her waking up and freaking out, not remembering how she got there, but you're not entirely sure. Most of the decisions you make concerning Nikki seem to be on instinct, like you're somehow programmed to know what to do with her in any given situation. Who knows? Maybe you are.

In the harsh amber streetlight you could see stains across her cheeks, salt-stains, the remnants of her tears. She's been crying. Because she's alone, you wondered? You didn't know. But you did know that she needed to feel cared for, she needed to feel loved. So you took her back to yours and carried her up to your flat; 242 stairs to be precise, because the lift had packed up again. And as you pulled off her ridiculously high-heeled shoes and tucked her in, wrapping her in a warm duvet cocoon, it occurred to you that she can't do this by herself; no one can. A bird builds its nest with another's feathers, it relies on those around it for protection and comfort, something it can't provide for itself. And she's been trying to do just that for so long, never mind that it's been tearing her apart. But that OK. Because you know now, and you're going to look after her. You're going to make sure she never feels alone, not ever again.

"Night Nikki," you whisper, kissing her forehead, before slowly, silently, flicking off the bedside light and making for the door. And you stop there for a few moments before you push the door shut, taking in her now peaceful sleeping form, and you smile. Because you know she feels safe now, you know that the fear of dying alone is gone, at least for tonight. And that you consider a minor miracle.


End file.
